


Putting on a Show

by chaos_monkey, draculard



Series: Caught in the Act [3]
Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Clothed Masturbation, Eli Vanto doesn't get paid enough, M/M, Masturbation, No patience for comic!Nightswan's cheek tattoos, Office masturbation, Sometimes when you spy on people you get a personal porn show that's just the way it is, Video Cameras, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29024226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: The camera Nightswan plants in Thrawn's office is purely for tactical reasons, of course.But that doesn't mean he can't occasionally get glimpses at more interesting things too.
Relationships: Nevil Cygni | Nightswan/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Series: Caught in the Act [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125047
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41
Collections: Thrawn Kinkmeme Fills





	Putting on a Show

**Author's Note:**

> And yet another fill for the same prompt on the [Thrawn Kinkmeme](https://thrawnkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/)

He’d done a lot of good things since he allied with the Rebels (and a fair amount of bad stuff, too), but Nightswan had never been more proud of himself than he was right now. To distract a mind as sharp as Admiral Thrawn’s was no small feat, and it had required one of his most elaborate operations yet — but the real _coup de grace_ was the small item he’d managed to smuggle aboard Thrawn’s ship without the admiral ever catching wise.

It was affixed to Thrawn’s office wall now, giving Nightswan a perfect view of the admiral, his desk, and his increasingly disinterested aide. For nearly an hour now, Thrawn had been discussing Nightswan’s latest maneuver, his voice starting out modulated and cool, his praise detached and rather modest. Nightswan had expected him to wrap up the discussion forty-five minutes ago — and evidently so had Eli Vanto, who kept checking his chrono — but over time, Thrawn only started speaking faster, his words coming out rushed with enthusiasm, his gestures becoming more expressive with every sentence.

At the start of the conversation, Thrawn’s face had been a blank mask. Now there was a sort of open eagerness on his face that Nightswan almost wanted to call ardor — a fact that totally didn’t affect Nightswan at _all_ , of course. A fact he barely noticed, because why would he? He was only watching the video feed for the tactical advantage; listening to Thrawn’s point of view of the operation gave him a deeper understanding of the man and helped him identify small cultural differences he might be able to exploit in the future.

For example, Thrawn thought it was really neat how Nightswan utilized the locals as decoys by promising protection from the Imps later on.

And he thought it was _so_ clever how Nightswan had manipulated the Governor from Bastai to call for Imperial help, splitting local forces in two.

And—

Well, really, all Nightswan was learning was just how much Thrawn admired him, and if that was the only reason he kept watching, who cared? He deserved a little ego boost.

Thrawn’s counterattack had utterly crushed his plans, after all. Smuggled camera notwithstanding. 

“I don’t think that part was planned, sir,” said Vanto dubiously, interrupting Thrawn for the first time in twenty minutes.

It _was_ , thought Nightswan with indignation.

“It was,” Thrawn insisted. He sat up straighter in protest. “Had you studied the cultural downloads I sent you for Bastai—”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Vanto quickly, trying to stave off a new line of conversation. Thrawn put his palms down on the desk, his posture strangely stiff.

“It’s apparent Nightswan has been studying artwork more closely,” Thrawn said, his voice low and almost rough. “His analyses are well-learned, but not organic. He’s been reading textbooks, I suspect; trying to predict the decisions I’ll make in battle.”

A low thrill went through Nightswan; he resisted the urge to glance at the stack of art history datacards to his left. 

“I get it, sir,” said Vanto with strained patience; the expression on his face made it clear he thought this was a rather self-important deduction on Thrawn’s part. He lifted his datapad in an almost pleading gesture. “But I have those after-action reports…”

Looking visibly disappointed, Thrawn nodded. “Of course, Commander. You’re dismissed.”

Vanto couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Nightswan shifted in his chair but kept his eyes on the camera for a moment, waiting to see if Thrawn might do something actually strategically significant now that he was alone — type in his personal code, for example, or make a top secret holo call. 

Instead, Thrawn only sat there for a moment. In the low-quality video feed, his cheeks looked strangely-colored, almost like a deep indigo blush had spread over the bridge of his nose. He rubbed the tips of his ears as if trying to force the color out of them — and before Nightswean could figure out how to interpret this, Thrawn leaned forward and tapped his datapad screen back to life. Beneath the table, the camera could just make out his thighs shifting as he relaxed against his chair, the muscles tensing briefly beneath the fabric, his knees spreading slightly farther apart.

Nightswan could just barely make out what was on the datapad; a blurry photo of himself from the old Nevil Cygni disguise, back when he’d had those awful artificial tattoos on his face. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of it — but before he could get distracted by thoughts of self-disgust, his attention swerved elsewhere.

To Thrawn’s right hand, currently sliding underneath the desk. It landed halfway on his hip and halfway on his abdomen, resting there in a gentle and unnatural way that made it look almost like a caress. Long, dextrous-looking fingers curled over his thigh. Nightswan found his eyes focusing unreasonably on those fingers. On their exact position. On the lazy set of Thrawn’s wrist — how heavy his hand might be, how warm his palm might feel — and the way his thumb rubbed slowly, absently, up his thigh—

—until it brushed over the exact place on his uniform where, incidentally, Nightswan’s own cock was slowly hardening against his thigh. He could feel himself hardening at the thought; if he pretended that was _his_ body Thrawn was touching, _his_ thigh, then right now Thrawn’s thumb would be brushing right over the head of his cock, pressing the fabric over the slit so lightly it would feel like a whisper of breath against his skin. 

What were the chances that Thrawn was doing exactly that?

_Don’t think about it,_ Nightswan told himself. He watched Thrawn’s thumb move in slow circles over the same area — and was it just him, or was the pressure gradually increasing, the angle of Thrawn’s hand changing, his thumb pressing down harder every time? Nightswan’s eyes flicked up and he studied Thrawn’s expression for a moment — the intense look of almost-frightening concentration, the harsh line between his eyebrows, the sharp and regal angles of his face. Thrawn’s eyes were fixed on the blurry image of Nevil Cygni.

And beneath his hand, his cock was starting to fill out, the outline of it visible and thick.

Mouth dry, Nightswan watched as Thrawn shifted his hips, pressing his palm hard against his cock. Dimly, some part of Nightswan’s brain noted with a sense of near-hysteria that he was watching Admiral Thrawn, an Imperial (a nonhuman, very smart Imperial, perhaps the only person who’d ever presented Nightswan with a challenge, the only person he could truly say he admired) touch himself in his office to a picture of Nightswan himself, Thrawn’s greatest enemy.

An enemy he’d just spent an hour raving about, admittedly. Onscreen, Thrawn palmed himself through his trousers, his head tipping back and his eyes drifting closed. There was an expression of pure relaxation on his face, a type of bliss that Nightswan had never seen on the admiral before.

Thrawn’s hand shifted down, his thighs spreading as he cupped himself. His thumb trailed down the long, thick line of his cock; pre-cum soaked through his uniform and left a small wet spot over the cockhead, and as Nightswan watched, Thrawn swept his thumb over it — spreading it over the head, pressing the wet fabric down against his slit. Thrawn’s chest rose and fell in a deep, shivering sigh; he arched his back, pushing his hips forward.

It was, Nightswan thought, a peculiarly artistic show. He undid his trouser fly and pulled his half-hard cock out without glancing away from the screen; Thrawn’s form was exquisite, every little movement filled with grace, every shift of muscle displaying his physique as perfectly as the lithe nude dancers Nightswan had once seen perform on Coruscant. It was so beautiful it seemed almost posed — but that was Thrawn to a tee, Nightswan thought, stroking himself to full hardness. So ridiculously good at everything he did that it seemed unreal.

He swept his thumb over the ridge on his cockhead and watched as Thrawn, with quick deft movements, opened his tunic and shrugged it off. He wore no undershirt underneath; his chest was bare and well-defined, his uniform trousers creating a sharp contrast where they rested on his hips. Thrawn leaned back in his chair, keeping himself balanced with one boot on the ground, and unbuttoned his trousers to reveal his cock, long and thick and uncut.

And then, as he wrapped his fingers around his length and held himself there — not stroking, just squeezing, eyes closed and chest rising evenly — Thrawn turned and looked straight at the camera.

Wide-eyed, Nightswan stared back. He watched the corners of Thrawn’s lips curl up in a knowing smile. He watched that smug expression fracture as Thrawn moved his hand up the length of his cock, breath hitching with undisguised pleasure, eyes sliding closed again. And just as Thrawn reached the head of his cock…

...the camera went black. Nightswan stared at his own reflection in the screen, his pupils blown wide, his cock out and leaking pre-cum over his hand.

The bastard had turned the video feed off.


End file.
